The Gender War (The Gender Game #4)(48)

I held out my hand to Quinn, and he focused on it, picking up the scissors. He carefully cut away the bandage, cutting along the side of my hand, keeping as far away from the wound as possible. I kept perfectly still, not wanting him to slice me by mistake.

When he reached the end of the wad of shirt, Quinn set the scissors down and carefully cradled my fingers in his hand, slowly pulling away the makeshift bandage. I winced despite how gently he pulled, but still watched in morbid fascination as he peeled it away. When he finally tried to fold the whole thing back, I groaned as the bandage caught, revealing that part of it had become glued to my hand, stuck tight with coagulated blood.

“Sorry,” Quinn said, ripping the bandage away in one quick movement. My vision went gray as pain exploded from the spot, and I looked up, locking my jaw to prevent the suddenly formed scream from escaping my throat. The pain cut right through me, making my eyes and nose water and my stomach roil.

I heard Owen’s soft gasp and Quinn’s displeased tsk, and slowly lowered my head, exhaling through my mouth. My eyes were drawn to the bleeding hole in my hand, almost an inch in length.

Quinn used the bandage to wipe some of the blood away, and I had to look away again when I saw something white just inside the torn flesh—it wasn’t the remains of Viggo’s shirt. It made me dizzy to think that I had just seen my own bones, and I had a sudden need to lie down, the room sliding back and forth while I remained fixed in my spot.

Then Owen placed a warm hand on my shoulder, and for some reason, it helped. I kept my teeth locked and leaned into Owen as Quinn carefully cleaned the wound. I tried not to cry out each time he did something that sent a throbbing, searing pain shooting up my arm. It went better when I stopped looking at my hand at all, keeping my gaze on Owen, or on the opulent furniture surrounding us.

I felt Quinn place something on each side of the wound, front and back. “What’s that?” I whispered.

Owen squeezed my shoulder, but it was Quinn who answered. “I’m numbing the area the best I can, Vi. And then I’m going to stitch it up. I’m sorry, but it’s still probably going to hurt a bit.”

I nodded rapidly as I felt something pressing against the wound. I couldn’t feel anything at first, but as whatever it was dug in more, little stabs of pain increased, and my breathing became more and more ragged.

“It’s okay,” Owen said soothingly, and I wrenched my gaze over to him. He was pale and grim, his face contorting more and more as he watched Quinn continue, I assumed, to stitch. I bit off a groan as he pushed the thing deeper, and I cried out, steeling myself not to try to rip my hand away.

It went on for what felt like forever. About halfway through, I realized that the stabbing pain had abated—but I could still feel every time the long needle Quinn held passed through my flesh, a strange tugging and yanking feeling. As he pulled the needle out, I risked a glance and instantly regretted it. Nausea swooped up in my stomach, and I looked back at Owen, feeling the fingers on my left hand shaking.

Owen’s hand on my shoulder continued to steady me, but I felt the spinning sensation get worse. “Breathe, Violet,” Owen muttered to me. “Deep breaths. Count to ten.”

“Almost there,” Quinn murmured. I tried to suck in a longer breath, following Owen’s instructions, but as the needle jerked in and out of my hand again, I felt moments away from vomiting. I waited for the next one, but only felt tugging and yanking as Quinn tied off the stitches. My nausea plateaued, and then, slowly, started to drop. I felt the young man release my hand with a sigh.

I rested my head against the wall behind me, suddenly very drained, and let the world around me disappear. It took several minutes for me to catch my breath and come back to awareness. When I did, I was surprised to see that Quinn was putting the finishing touches on a new, pristine bandage.

“Is that it?” I asked, looking at him.

He gave me a soft smile and an eager nod. “That’s it,” he replied.

Woodenly, I stood up, ready to be done—then found the world spinning around me worse than ever. I managed to direct my body back toward the window seat, Owen and Quinn both rushing to grab me and support my limp form. Blackness danced across my vision, though I maintained consciousness.

A few moments later, I struggled to sit up again. This time the two young men hovering over me would have none of it.

“Stay there, Violet,” Owen commanded. “I’m going to see if I can get you something from the kitchen. It’ll help you recover faster. Quinn, don’t let her move.”

“I just want to go to bed,” I croaked, my pride more than gone.

“Soon,” Quinn said. “Soon.” He kept talking quietly and enthusiastically, but I could barely concentrate on the words I knew he was trying to distract me with. “Viggo,” I found myself murmuring before I realized it.

“He’s still with Ashabee,” Quinn said, smiling sweetly, and I would have flushed if there had been any blood left in my face with which to do it.

Eventually, Owen came back with some crackers and bottled juice for me. He watched over me to see that I’d taken in at least some of it without throwing up, then made me take some painkillers and generally hovered over me like a new mother. I was definitely going to make fun of them for this afterward—if I didn’t just sleep for the next three days.

It seemed like far too long after that before I convinced them to let me go. I made it upstairs and opened the first door I saw. It led to a bedroom, and within moments I had collapsed on a bed. The sensation was coming back into my hand, and I didn’t want to be awake by the time I could feel everything again. I was covered with filthy layers of sweat and dirt, but I was too tired to care. My eyes fell closed, and I let the darkness take me away.